Far Be It From Me
by riptey
Summary: Draco works in the dementia ward at St. Mungo's, and he loves his job, but he doesn't feel comfortable anywhere else. Recurring tremors in his hands make it hard for him to do things, and he's too embarrassed to let anyone see. So when his schoolboy crush, Hermione Granger, suddenly reappears in his life, all he can do is push her away. DMHG/EWE/for dramione remix (Donnie Darko)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or any related characters or ideas.

 **Full Summary:** Draco works in the dementia ward at St. Mungo's, and he loves his job, but he doesn't feel comfortable anywhere else. Recurring tremors in his hands make it hard for him to do things, and he's too embarrassed to let anyone see. So when his schoolboy crush, Hermione Granger, suddenly reappears in his life, all he can do is push her away.

 **A/N:** Written for what you must know by now is my _favorite_ fest, dramione remix, for the prompt Donnie/Gretchen from _Donnie Darko._ That was a few months ago, but I just got around to cross-posting now. Stands complete as-is, but I would like to continue it someday. Perhaps I will.

Thank you to my beta, the ravishing raa! Fast worker, enthusiastic cheerleader, brilliant editor!

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 **Far Be It From Me**

 **by riptey**

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Why do boys destroy?

Why do they say such things, such awful things, such cruel and burning boy things? They must think it does something. They must not think at all.

A teenage boy is not himself. He is a conduit, a tuning fork. He exists to vibrate at a particular frequency.

Draco is vibrating more noticeably than most boys, though: sometimes so much that he can't even hold a glass of water. Where once his vibration was psychological, it has now become physical. The tremors in his hands are the worst thing, because they give him away the most. People always notice. In public, he keeps his hands in his pockets. In private, he holds his glass with both hands, carefully lifting it to his mouth for each little drink. It is hard every time.

His mother makes him eat breakfast with her a few times a week, and she watches his hands like a child watches a very ugly person—knowing she must not look, and must not be caught looking, but all the same looking as much as she can. Discreetly, she imagines, but quite obviously to the person being observed. Narcissa times her breaths by his hands, he can hear her, in their quiet breakfast nook. Some mornings, he can pick up his fork and knife and eat just like normal. Other times, his silver clatters against the plate and makes his ears ring, and his yolks break. And his mother tries to pretend that she is not looking.

Draco's counselor thinks that the tremors represent his anger, because she thinks that Draco should be feeling angrier than he is. But it is like he's used it all up. Like he felt so angry, so inappropriately, for so long, that he has spent his lifetime allotment of anger and now must offer due space to other kinds of emotions. He should be angry at his father, she says, or at least he could be, if he wanted to. It's good that Draco has forgiven his father, she says, but that doesn't mean he doesn't get to be angry. If he wants. Draco hates his counselor when she says these things, with a quiet sort of icy hate that doesn't go anywhere or do anything, just covers him up like snow. Other times, he thinks she's all right. She is nice to him at least. It isn't the worst way to kill an hour. It's a good excuse to leave his house. But everyone at the Ministry knows why he's there, so he feels their eyes even inside her office. She always says it's private, that it's a safe space, but he feels like an actor on stage. He's never felt less like himself anywhere else.

At St Mungo's, in the dementia ward, he feels much more normal. Probably if he told her that, his counselor would think it was weird. It is weird, but he likes it there. He started just on Tuesdays because he had to—he'd selected it for his community service hours—but after a few weeks, he'd asked if he could come in more often. Now, he works full time and is on track to become a mediwizard's assistant. His mother thinks he should be a mediwizard himself, but he'd have to go back and finish up his last year of school. She doesn't like that he's just going to be an assistant, but he doesn't care. Sometimes, with a flash of bitterness, he wants to remind her that she was okay with him becoming a Death Eater. Is mediwizard's assistant so much lower in her eyes?

It is 6:30 A.M., still dark outside, and he is getting the medication cart ready for morning rounds. His hands begin to shake, so he stops and places them flat on the counter, fingers wide apart. He closes his eyes and begins to count to ten slowly, clearing his mind to an inky black slate. When he is finished, he lifts his hands, and they are calm enough to finish rationing the potions. There is Calming Draught for Mr Ryeburn, who has tremors just like Draco, but who screams and yells also. Invigoration Draught for Hilda S. and Ms Menkel, or they won't get out of bed all day. Memory and Wit-Sharpening Potions for Mr Bridges, because his daughter is bringing his grandson today, and everyone is hoping he'll recognize them both. Some Vitamix and Ache-away for everybody, to ease movement and keep strength up.

His hands shake again on the handle of the cart, but as long as he's not spilling anyone's medicine, he doesn't mind when that happens here. The witches and wizards have all been alive over 150 years—they've seen much worse, and they've all got their own problems. Between the group of them, small though it is, they hold over a millennium of human experience. Draco's thin hands and their wayward movements mean nothing on such a grand scale.

The last witch he sees each morning is his favorite: Ms Wisteria Banister. She is sure that she can travel through time at will, and she always tells him all about her trips. She thinks that Draco could travel through time, too, but it is only possible at night. If he ever wants to, she says, he can sneak back in to visit her after evening rounds and accompany her on one of her journeys. He makes fun of her behind her back, but some nights, when he is by himself and unable to sleep, he considers her offer quite seriously.

He knocks on the frame of her open door, with nothing left on his cart except her doses of Vitamix and Ache-away. Ms. Banister is awake already, sitting on the edge of her bed. When she sees him, her face splits into a dazzling grin. "Draco," she says, "you missed a good one last night. Really good one, I wish you could've been there."

"Oh?" he says, as he wheels the cart over to her bedside. "Future or past?"

She looks around before she talks, making sure no busybodies have sidled up to hear, and lowers her voice. "The future."

Draco raises his eyebrows. "The future? How far?"

Ms Banister hugs herself with rapture. "It must've been at least a century, if not more. You should see the brooms they'll have. Oh, I wish you'd have been there. You'd have loved those brooms."

"I wouldn't mind a new broom," he says. "They come up with anything else good by then?"

She leans forward and gestures for him to do the same, and he obliges. When their noses are almost touching, she tells him the juiciest part: "Doxies... are extinct."

"Serves them right," he says, and they both laugh.

"I thought the very same thing."

—

The following day, Draco goes to see Dr Dormer. His appointment is at 10:00 A.M. each time, which is helpful, because it allows him to walk through the Ministry when there are very few other people around. Today, though, he sees someone he knows, and it is someone he both does and doesn't want to see.

He knows her from behind, from all the way down the hall, because he's spent a lot of time looking at her from a number of angles, before quickly looking away. He's only ever told one person what this woman means to him, a long time ago when he was drunk on stolen Firewhisky in the fifth year dorms, after Goyle passed out. The person he told was Vincent Crabbe, and he is dead now anyway. So, if Crabbe kept the secret, and Draco thinks he did, nobody ever has to know that the woman down the hall is the object of his most ardent schoolboy infatuation, Hermione Granger.

But, oh, she was _the_ girl. For a long time, she was the only girl he could see. It started when she slapped him across the face in third year, a move that turned him on surely more than she'd intended. Although sometimes, Draco liked to fancy that this had been her intent. That she found it just as sexy as he did, and that she thought about him, too. Sometimes he could've sworn she was looking at him across the Great Hall or the Potions classroom, but then he'd wonder if it was just because she'd caught him staring. It's true, what they say about boys pulling pigtails just for one reason. It's all true, what they say about boys.

He only got over her in sixth year, when other things were occupying his mind. But even now, every time he sees her, a little shock runs through his body, and he is overcome by fascination and shame. He jams his hands into his pockets and hangs his head low. Hermione turns half-way toward him, but he doesn't meet her eyes. He walks past her, wondering what she's doing in this part of the building; she works in the Department of Magical Education, so her office wouldn't be anywhere near here.

He walks past her into the doctor's office, closing the door behind him.

Dr Dormer looks at him and smiles benignly. "Good morning, Draco," she says.

"Morning." He takes a seat in the middle of the loveseat, across the room from the armchair where she sits with her legs crossed, holding his chart. He manages a small smile as well, then looks away. He finds it difficult to make eye contact at these sessions, especially because of Dr Dormer's particular eyes. They are very blue, wide, and intense, partially because she is so thin. You can see all the bones below her skin, and her eyes are set deep. The precision of her gaze amplifies the feeling of playing a role before an audience. She has mentioned it before, the fact that he doesn't meet her eyes, and has suggested that it may imply an aversion to forming new connections, after so many of his closest ties have been severed, through death or through betrayal. That sounds reasonable enough to Draco, and he's afraid it would offend her if he told her that, actually, he is afraid of her stinging big eyes.

On the top of her stack of papers will be the mood chart, which they fill out at the beginning of each appointment. This is Draco's favourite part because the questions are multiple choice, rather than fill-in-the-blank. It is much easier.

Readying her quill, she asks: "How would you rate your mood this week, overall?" On her paper, there is a line with two marks on either end, representing the space between the lowest low and the highest high.

Draco's week has been about average. "In the middle," he says. "It's been fine."

Dr Dormer draws a vertical dash across the line, right in the centre, and frowns. "How about your stress level?"

"Middle," he says, without thinking about it.

She repeats the motion on the second line down the page, still frowning. Those first two questions are the same for every patient, and then the next three are the ones that Draco chose at his first session. "How's your motivation? Are you getting out and doing things?" she asks next, for this was one of the things that Draco decided to track.

He thinks about it briefly, but he does this mainly so that she will see him thinking and know that he is taking this whole thing seriously. If he doesn't take his counseling seriously this time, they'll shove him off on another doctor and start it all over, like they did before. Draco has done much better with Dormer than the last one, but he also thinks she's smarter than the other bloke, so that doesn't hurt. "It was pretty good—I didn't stay home all week. Say, three-quarters of the way along."

She nods and places the dash as instructed. "And how are things at the hospital?"

"Good," he says. Nothing has gone wrong that doesn't go wrong every week. "Three-quarters."

Next is the fifth and final question. "How are the tremors?"

Draco takes his hands out of his pockets and holds them above his lap, looking at them. At the moment, they are still. "Sometimes good, other times bad. Middle."

Dr Dormer makes the last mark, then studies the paper. "Thank you, Draco," she says. "Now, there's something I'd like to show you. There's a reason we answer the same questions every week, do you understand?"

"Yes," he says.

"And this is our fifth week together, so we can begin to discern patterns."

"Sure."

"And here is the pattern we've got so far." She taps the page with the tip of her wand, then pulls it away slowly, and a sticky line of light stretches up like chewing gum on the bottom of a shoe. The line stretches thin as she tugs it. Next, it snaps away and tacks itself onto her wand tip, a little glowing sphere. She taps the air, and it sprawls out in four directions to form a bright rectangle a few metres across. On the rectangle are four horizontal lines, each a different color, at varying heights. Three of the lines are right next to each other at the midpoint, and the other two are the same, except three-quarters of the way up. When Draco sees this graph, he realises that he isn't doing a very good job of taking this seriously—not even the multiple choice part, which he'd thought was in the bag. "Do you see?"

"Yes," he says. He feels irritable, like his performance in here is being critiqued. And why shouldn't it be? He _is_ a flat line. Every week, he's had her put the little dashes in the exact same places, without even knowing he was doing it. "But how much is really going to change in five weeks?"

Dr Dormer flicks her wand, and the graph vanishes. "I didn't show you that to imply that you've done something wrong, Draco. You haven't."

"Then why did you?" he bites out. He can feel it happen, like drawing the curtains: his face has closed itself off, and his eyes are sharp specks of flint. His whole body feels tight and stern.

"Let's take a step back," she says, "and assess: what is the threat?"

Draco deflates as he casts his eyes around the sunny office, reminding himself that she is right. He hates that she is right. "No threat."

"Right, no threat." She folds her hands in her lap, atop her wand, and leans back in her chair. "We can relax here. Your body knows how to protect itself, because there was a time when you had to be on the defensive all the time. But not anymore."

No, not anymore. His hands are shaking so hard you can see the vibration through the fabric of his robes, making little black waves. Dr Dormer probably sees it, but she doesn't comment. It seems like the more he tries to relax the rest of his body, the more his hands rebel. It's got so he's afraid to hold his wand half the time; this kind of muscle control issue is accidental magic waiting to happen.

"I think it's clear that we haven't made much progress, Draco," she says. Her words are harsh, but her tone is gentle. She must've learned that trick in counseling school. She gives him space to speak, but he doesn't try to argue. "So, that means that it's time to try something new, if you're willing to give it a try. I have two options for you to consider today—or you can choose neither." He knows that's not really an option, because it would look like he wasn't trying. He can't afford to look like he's not trying, or this will never end, just like his own personal hell. He nods his head. "We can try a medication, or we can try hypnotherapy."

"You want to hypnotise me?" he asks. That doesn't feel like something a doctor should be doing. "Like, make me cluck like a chicken?"

Dr Dormer smiles. "No, not like that. This isn't a parlour trick. I would just attempt to put you into a deep state of relaxation, in the hopes that it might allow you to be a bit more honest: both with me and with yourself."

Draco doesn't want that at all. _What do they want from me?_ he thinks. _I'm showing up and talking. Now it has to be true?_

Back when he was seeing the first doctor, Draco had understood this mandatory counseling sentence to mean that he must 1) show up and 2) remain in the doctor's presence for the full hour of the session. He had done those things, but he had also refused to say a single word. After a few sessions of that, they made him start all over with Dr Dormer, so he found out that he must 3) appear to cooperate. But now, they want more. They want him to be honest. If they knew what that meant, they wouldn't want it anymore.

"And the other option is medication," he says. They've tried to give him medication before, and he's always dodged the idea. Mostly because he knows these people want to change who he is, so he can't trust them to give him medicine to any other end.

"Correct. I know you haven't been warm to it in the past, but I want you to know that we're not talking about dragon tranquilisers. Nothing drastic at all, in fact. We just want to try to alleviate your anxiety a bit. It could have an immediate effect on the tremors."

"I know," he says. He doesn't believe her. "Let's say I choose hypnosis. Do we have to do it right now?"

"Of course not, if you don't feel like you're ready. We can talk about it today and try it next session, if that works better for you. Or we can scrap the whole idea—it's up to you."

Draco stares out the window, which doesn't have much of a view, and goes over his options. As he considers it, it occurs to him that medication and hypnosis would have more or less the same result, except the medication would affect him all the time, whereas hypnosis would be temporary. The third option, which isn't really an option, is to drag this out until they make him start over again. "I'll try it next week," he says.

Dr Dormer smiles widely, and it makes him feel relieved. He's doing what they want. This might all be over soon. "Excellent," she says. "Then let's talk about what this is and how it works. First, know that I won't be using any magic on you. The state of mind we'll be aiming for is something totally natural. You won't be compelled to do anything you don't want to do, nor can I force you to tell me anything you don't want to admit. The goal is just to help you feel calmer, in your body and your mind. How does that all sound?"

Draco takes a moment to stare into space, offering the impression that he is giving this some in-depth consideration. "That sounds fine," he says.

"Good. And if you think of any questions throughout the week, be sure to write them down, and we'll take some time to discuss them before we begin the therapy."

"Will do."

"There's one more thing I'd like to discuss," she says. "You've mentioned in the past that you've thought of becoming a mediwizard, but that you'd need to complete your N.E.W.T.s first."

Draco has mentioned that, even though it isn't true. Sometimes he likes to tell Dr Dormer things that make him sound like he is trying and has goals. Like he is doing something with his life, and it matters what happens to him. So he took his mother's idea and acted like it was his. "Sure," he says. "That's something I've thought about."

Dr Dormer smiles in an apprehensive sort of way, narrowing her eyes at the same time. She is afraid of how he'll react to the next thing she says. "Now, I'm not sure how you'll feel about this, but I've decided it wouldn't be fair not to mention it. One of my friends and colleagues in the Ministry is working with a continuing education program for adults."

"That's nice," he says warily. This conversation isn't going anywhere good.

"Yes, I think it's lovely. So far, the program is aimed at older Hogwarts graduates who wish to change careers later in life. At this time, the conditions of your parole do not allow you to enroll."

This would be for the same reason he wasn't allowed to return to Hogwarts: basically, Draco isn't allowed to participate in society until he completes his counseling and community service. They're supposed to monitor him much more closely than they actually do at St Mungo's, in fact, but the dementia ward is so understaffed that they started leaving him alone as soon as he showed the slightest inclination to do a good job. He thinks it's a backwards system, since they say they're all about reintegration and rehabilitation, but it gives him a handy excuse not to be around people too much. "That's too bad," he says, relieved.

Dr Dormer holds up her finger. "But! As a personal favour to me, my colleague has agreed to provide some one-on-one tutoring sessions that would allow you to start the program's curriculum now and finish more quickly. The only reason I hesitate to extend you the opportunity is that this colleague of mine... well, you have a history with her."

"Who is it?" He knows, though. In fact, this answers his question from before, of what she was doing down here.

"Hermione Granger," she says. He feels himself cringe hearing the name, but not for the reason Dr Dormer probably thinks. It's more complicated than that. It was always more complicated than people thought.

"I think she's the one who'd prefer not to work with me," he says. He wouldn't blame her, either. Draco keeps thinking lately that he deserves whatever he gets, and no one's lining up to dispute it.

"Actually, she's already agreed. I told her of your future goals, and I mentioned how much work you've already done at St Mungo's, and she was duly impressed." Dr Dormer said this as though Draco would be pleased she'd done all this for him, and any normal fellow would have been, but all it did was open a pit in his stomach. He doesn't want anyone running round talking about him and his nonexistent future, especially not to his boyhood dream girl. Draco has been counting on society not wanting him back, but it turns out they can't make up their mind. His parole's going to be up eventually, and if they want him there, they'll cut him down to size and make him fit.

"Oh," he says, with ice in his throat. "That's nice of her."

"It is nice, but I want you to understand that it's also because of your behavior. You've really made the most of your time in the past year." Every so often, the power of his doctor's eyes is so great and terrible that he just has to look. He does so now and becomes transfixed. "Please tell me you understand that, Draco. I don't think you give yourself enough credit."

He looks into her eyes and feels the vast darkness in his stomach begin to recede. She does mean well, he thinks. "Thank you," he says. He looks down at his shoes. "When do I start?"

"You would spent an hour working with Hermione at 9 A.M. on Wednesdays, and then you'd come see me. I thought it'd be easiest that way, since you take today off work anyway."

"That's fine," he says, without looking up. "Are we done for today?"

"Yes, we are. I think you did really well this time, Draco, I really do."

"Thank you."

Before he leaves, she conjures a card with directions to the room where he'll be meeting Hermione the following week. As he walks out of the Ministry, his schoolboy heart threatens to beat right out of his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

One afternoon, the following week, Draco gets bored at St Mungo's and decides to sneak Ms Banister an extra jelly snack. He grabs one for her and one for himself, then tucks them into his pockets along with a few spoons. It's not exactly grand theft, but it feels exhilarating. He's keyed up that day, anyway, because tomorrow he goes to see Hermione Granger. He can't remember the last time he even spoke to her, but it was probably some insult in the Hogwarts halls. Maybe it was _that_ insult, even, the one that Aunt Bellatrix cut into her arm. He hasn't said it since. He won't say it again. It wasn't until he saw it carved into her skin that its full meaning bloomed in his chest. And now they are both scarred, in almost the very same place.

Ms Banister is sitting up in bed, propped up on her pillows, leafing through a _Witch Weekly_ with a handheld magnifier. She looks up at Draco and smiles that full-face smile. "Let me guess," she says. "You got the goods."

He makes a show of looking both ways, then pulls the jelly cup out of his pocket and holds it up for her approval.

"Blue raspberry," she says. "Nice."

He pulls up the chair beside her bed, opens her snack, and hands it to her along with the spoon. Old people make the grossest noises when they eat that weird jelly stuff, but he's used to it by now. There are grosser things in this ward, after all, and as the new kid with the attempted-murder charge hanging on his back, he'd been the one stuck doing them. He opens his own jelly cup, cherry flavour, and takes a bite.

"So, what's up, buttercup?" she asks, between spoonfuls of unidentifiable food substance.

"I'm not your buttercup," he says.

"Sure, you are. Look at your hair!" She lets loose a cackle that quickly devolves into a coughing fit, and Draco pauses between bites to see if a medical intervention will be necessary. No, it goes away on its own, and then she starts laughing again.

"Fair enough," he says. It makes him uncomfortable when she says sweet old lady things to him. Like icing with too much sugar, the kind that sticks in the back of your throat. But then again, she's the only one he nicks extra snacks for. Maybe he likes it more than he thinks. "Nothing's up with me. All I do is work here."

"That can't be true," she says. "What about your wife? You must take her out sometimes."

Draco looks at Ms Banister, whose face is sincere. She is confusing him with someone else. "That isn't me with the wife," he says. "I'm single. Not looking."

"Oh," she says. She puts her hand up to her temples and shakes her head. "I'm so sorry, Draco. I just got it mixed up."

"It's okay," he says.

"No, I really am sorry." She is still shaking her head, looking at her lap. "It's just so hard to keep it all straight."

"I know," he says. Really, though, he can't imagine what it must be like, knowing you can't trust your own mind anymore. It makes her so sad every time she gets confused, and he never knows what to say.

Ms Banister takes a deep breath as she begins to calm down. "Anyway, you should be married. At your age, why, you're practically an old maid." He looks at her incredulously, and she winks. She's only kidding.

"Right," he says, "an old maid at nineteen. Reckon I'll retire at thirty, then. Sounds good to me."

"But, really, there must be a girl around." Okay, so she's only half-kidding. Just like his mum, when this subject comes up. "If I were your age, I'd be interested."

"That's very kind of you, Ms Banister. Maybe one day, you'll travel to the right place in time."

She frowns into her jelly cup. "That's not how time travel works at all. You ought to pay better attention to me."

"Sorry," he says. He is thinking about Hermione Granger, and what he'd say to her instead, if he could go back to all those times he yelled awful things at her in school. Something nice, maybe. Like _what's up, buttercup?_

—

Draco doesn't sleep that night. Instead, he stays up and studies all his old notes and textbooks, cursing himself for not starting earlier. Why hadn't he thought of this last week? He's going to look like an idiot. He doesn't remember half this stuff.

When the sunrise catches his eye through the window, he realises it's time to start getting ready to go, but now he looks like hell and he's exhausted. He tries to remember that spell he used to use, way back when, to cover the dark circles under his eyes. But it keeps escaping him, and he keeps eyeing his bed—maybe he could just cancel. Just admit to everyone that he doesn't really give a damn whether or not he ever gets any N.E.W.T.s, that he's perfectly happy as a mediwizard's assistant. That it's all about reputation with them anyway, and his is in the toilet, so they might as well call it a day.

But he knows Dr Dormer would see that as a step backward, right when she thought he was doing so well. Right when he was on course to complete his twelve weeks this time and be done with it. So, Draco splashes cold water on his face, again and again, and dries off and looks in the mirror: it's okay. Bloodshot eyes, but it's okay. He makes himself a strong cup of tea and cools it down with his wand, so he can drink it in three large gulps. He slaps his cheeks a few times, fixes his hair once more, and takes the Floo to the Ministry.

The place where he's supposed to meet Hermione is a little conference room on the same floor as Dr Dormer's office. Even though he's on time, he finds that she is already set up in the room, with a few books and stacks of notes waiting neatly on the table. She stands when he enters, and he feels his hands start shaking hard. He balls them into fists in his pockets. He thinks maybe she is nervous, but it's difficult to tell. She looks at him straight-on and offers a small smile. "Good morning, Draco," she says.

He smiles back half-way, sardonically, just like he used to. It feels natural to return to old mannerisms. "Morning, Granger," he says. He walks over to the table and begins to inspect what she's brought. "Potions? I thought _you_ were supposed to be tutoring _me_."

He looks to her for a reaction, and she's taken it as a joke. "Fair point," she says. "I don't doubt you'll get up to speed quickly on this one. That's why we'll be starting here."

He wonders again why she is doing this. After all, she hasn't any service hours to work off. Maybe Dr Dormer has something on her, he thinks wildly, but this would be a serious waste of blackmail. He slumps into one of the chairs, and she pulls the next one out and sits beside him. Not too close, though. As she maneuvers into the chair, she manages to scoot it away from him tastefully. He wonders how much she hates him.

She picks up a booklet of bound parchment, covered in handwritten notes, and flicks through the pages. "So, Leona says you're aiming to become a mediwizard." He isn't used to hearing Dr Dormer called by her given name, and he wonders briefly what it would be like to know her as something other than his counselor.

"I'm thinking about it," he says. In his pockets, his hands are sweating, too.

"Potions is an important N.E.W.T., no matter what you do in the medical field." It's true, and he's glad she started with this one. Even if his natural facility with the subject weren't sufficient, his on-the-job training has already covered most of the potions on the exam. It gives him one less thing to worry about. In fact, if he'd known they'd be starting with Potions, he would've actually slept a few hours last night. Hermione leafs through a stack of loose parchments, then selects one and holds it out to him. He looks at the paper, with his hands in fists in his pockets, and then up at her. The problem is, he cannot take this paper. He would drop it or crumple it, trying to keep it in his hands. He slumps back in his chair and nods toward the table insolently. After a tense moment, Hermione rolls her eyes and places the paper in front of him, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

He leans forward to inspect the paper, and finds that it is a meticulous study guide detailing all the Potions he'll need to know. There are only two, maybe three, that he is rusty on, out of the twenty-five on the list.

"I'm sure you're familiar with all these," Hermione says. Now her voice is tight and high. She is irritated with him, just like old days. "And some of them, you mix regularly in the dementia ward. Is that correct?"

He nods, awkwardly bending forward to read from the table. "I brew some of these in large batches every week, because the residents take them every day. Wit-Sharpening, Ache-Away, Memory Potions..."

"All right, so we won't need to go over those at all. Are there any on the list that you think might give you trouble?"

He scans the list again, making mental notes. "Elixir to Induce Euphoria and Felix Felicis. Haven't made either since school." In fact, he's always been worst at Amortentia, but he doesn't want to make that in front of her. Too awkward. In fact, when he'd mixed it back in school, it had smelled like the moss and dirt on the castle wall she'd backed him up against in third year, before she slapped his face.

"All right," she says, marking them down on her copy of the study guide. She brushes the quill across her lips, in thought, and he looks away before his mind can wander. She locates two more parchments in her pile, and this time she doesn't bother trying to hand them to him. She just places them beside his study guide on the table. They are the recipes for the two potions he mentioned. "We'll start brewing these next Wednesday. In the meantime, study them and be ready to start as soon as we arrive. We'll need the whole hour to get a proper start on the Felix."

She looks up at him and waits for a response. "Okay," he says, and then looks back down at the papers.

And that's that. She stands and gathers her things, while Draco reclines in his chair and tries to look bored. When she has everything all packed up in her impossibly small bag, she takes one last look at him, nods curtly, and leaves the room. After she is gone, he takes his hands out of his pockets and looks through the papers she's given him. They've finished quite early, so he spends the rest of the hour studying the brewing instructions.

—

"How did things go with Hermione?" Dr Dormer asks, later that morning, after they've completed the five usual questions. Draco has made sure to answer them differently this time, now that he knows he's been mucking it up. She is smiling tentatively, and he can tell she is pretty excited about this whole tutoring arrangement.

"Fine," he says. He runs his fingers along the edges of the parchment in his pockets. It does feel good to be studying again. It reminds him of the logical rhythm of school, which he'd always appreciated: new material is introduced, and the surface is skimmed, then you go a little deeper, then you complete the unit, then you go back and study it all, and then you take the test. It's so wonderfully simple, and as long as you've got a decent instructor, there can be no surprises. Either you've studied enough, or you haven't. What happens next is up to you. It's really the only time in life when a person is truly responsible for his own destiny.

"Fine?" she repeats, hoping he'll elaborate, but he just nods. "All right. Fine it was." She readjusts her posture, readying herself to change the subject. "Moving right along, how are you feeling about the therapy we talked about trying today?"

He shrugs. This is just like school, really, now that he thinks about it. Dr Dormer always tells him how she wants him to progress, so all he has to do is wait an appropriate amount of time and then portray the appearance of having done so. "I think it might help," he says. "I'm certainly willing to give it a go."

Dr Dormer looks pleased. She takes her wand, shows it to Draco, and then places it behind her on a shelf. "As you can see, I'm not even holding my wand. I always show my patients before beginning a hypnotherapy session, because as I said before, this technique doesn't involve any magic. Just using what the mind itself already knows how to do." Draco nods. In truth, he doesn't care whether she casts any spells on him or not, as long as they're not Unforgivables or a Slug-Vomiting Charm—he hates that one. He's just trying to get through this. Dr Dormer snaps her fingers twice, and the enchanted lights in her office dim to the level of candlelight.

"Now, I'd like you to relax your eyes and select an object in the room. It can be anything at all, so long as you stick with the same object through the entire process." She pauses, and Draco scans her shelves. A silver vase draws his notice, and he trains his gaze upon it, allowing his eyes to close half-way. "It looks like you've got something," she continues. "Now, let's focus on our breath. Inhale slowly, filling your lungs, allowing your chest to swell with air. Imagine that this air is clean and full of life. Imagine that as the air flows in, your body becomes clean as well, and then that clean energy spreads out in all directions. Now, exhale gently, slowly emptying your lungs.

"That's right, that's the way. With each breath, feel your body relax. As you inhale again, the energy spreads further; you can feel a mild tingling sensation as it washes over your whole body, spreading outward from your chest. It moves up to your shoulders, relaxing and cleansing the muscles. It spreads to your neck, relaxing and healing the tension that lives there. It spreads down your arms, wrapping the muscles gently..."

Draco is with her up to this point, he really is. For a few seconds, looking at the vase, it actually felt kind of nice. It was working, and he does carry a lot of tension in his shoulders. But now, it's like that woo-woo "energy" she's describing suddenly loops back and constricts his lungs, like a mean little fist, clenching. He inhales sharply with a gasp, and Dr Dormer cuts herself off mid-word.

"Draco?" Her voice is panicked now. "Draco, are you all right?" He's breathing faster than he was before she started trying to make him slow down. His heart is beating fast, and he's breathing like he just ran all the way here. His doctor snaps her fingers twice again, and the lights return to normal. She stands and moves closer to him, muttering calming words, and slowly he gets his breathing back to normal. Dr Dormer sees that he's stopped hyperventilating, and so she returns to her seat, looking concerned. She watches him for a moment, to see if it'll get bad again, and then he sees her relax. "Draco?" she says, calmly this time. "Can you talk to me about what happened just now?"

He isn't sure how to answer that, but he's pretty irritated with himself. You'd think the easiest thing in the world would be to sit in a chair and get hypnotised, and then he would've looked like he was cooperating. He could have "made progress" this session just by sitting here and staring at a vase for an hour, and he couldn't even do that. "I don't know," he says. "It seemed like it was working just fine, but then... then it wasn't." He shrugs, looking down at his lap. His hands are still in his pockets.

"The important thing to understand is that this is no one's fault. The goal is to work together to get you into a more relaxed state. We weren't able to get there this time, but it's hard for some people. In fact, it's hard for a lot of people, the way things are these days. Everybody's always running around, and no one knows how to relax anymore." Draco nods, but he isn't quite sure what she's talking about. He's sure as hell not running around anywhere. He doesn't do very much at all. It's true, though, that he never does feel relaxed. "I think it's best if we cut this session short, and then start from scratch next time. How's that sound?"

 _Sounds bad_ , he thinks. He's screwed up a whole session. Sure, she didn't blame him this time, but what if he can't do it next week, either? She'll start to think he's doing it wrong on purpose, especially with his track record. She'll tell them he's not cooperating. "That sounds fine," he says.

—

He has to go through the ward's whole stock, but eventually he finds what he needs: a blue raspberry jelly cup. There's plenty of cherry, so he takes one of those, too, and tucks them both into his pockets. Ms Banister sets aside her novel and her small magnifier when he appears in her doorway, for this has become their routine. He opens her jelly and sits in the chair beside her bed.

"What's up, buttercup?" she asks. This time he doesn't fight her.

"I couldn't get hypnotised," he says. He's still upset with himself over that.

"Come again?" She thinks she's misheard him, partially deaf as she is. "I thought you said something about being hypnotised."

He slurps a spoonful of jelly. It sounds gross when he does it, too, even with all his teeth intact. "No, you heard right." By now, he's so used to speaking loudly around the residents that his mother sometimes has to tell him to stop yelling at home. "My counselor wants to hypnotise me, and I tried to do it, but it basically did the opposite. It made me hyperventilate."

"Why does your counselor want to hypnotise you?" Ms Banister asks, narrowing her eyes. "Sounds fishy to me. Never let one of those folks get into your head, that's what I say. You never know what they'll want to do—mess things around in there, stir you up like beating eggs to bake a cake. Can't trust a one of 'em."

Almost all of Draco's residents display some degree of paranoia, so he's used to this sort of thing, but on this subject he tends to agree. His hands are starting to bother him again now, and his jelly keeps wobbling off the spoon and into his lap or onto the floor. He watches a blob of it tumble down toward the white linoleum, like a gel-state cherry bomb, and land with a splat.

"That's what I wanted to know," he says. "I asked her if she was going to make me cluck like a chicken or something. But she says it's only supposed to make me relax."

"Make you relax? There's her problem, right there. You can't make someone relax—what, hold them at wandpoint? 'Relax, or get hexed'?" She laughs at her own joke, causing her electric-blue jelly to wobble on the spoon. "Some of us weren't made to relax, if you ask me. Why, look at me—I don't even sleep at night. I use that time to go on my journeys. Learn new things and see new people."

"Sounds like you've got the right idea," Draco says. He's never really felt relaxed, either, never has known how. His parents are the same way, probably it runs in the family.

—

Draco thinks of Ms Banister that night, when he can't sleep. He wonders, not for the first time, if there's any possibility—any at all—that she really can travel through time. It wouldn't be entirely unheard of in the magical community, and he knows from her family's accounts that she was an exceptionally powerful witch in her prime. Or maybe Draco just likes her, so he wants her not to be crazy. He wants her to be telling the truth, and really doing something impressive. Like one day she'll prove her abilities and show them all, and they'll see they were keeping her in the dementia ward against her will for no reason. In her vast kindness, she'll forgive them their error, and Draco will come and visit her sometimes at night, to go see the dinosaurs roam the earth.

Tomorrow is Wednesday, and his next appointment with Hermione, hence the insomnia. He's been studying the two potions all week and has both recipes memorised, so he's not worried about that, but he's nervous as hell to see Hermione. And mixing potions—what if his hands won't do it? As soon as he has that thought, it feels like a gavel coming down, like his destiny is now set. He knows that this will happen. His hands will betray him, first thing tomorrow morning.

Alone in bed, he stares up at the ceiling. In the shadows above him, shapes begin to form in his mind. What if there were a girl in his life, he wonders, and what if it were that girl?

A familiar fantasy wraps itself around his body, and it is like he is floating out of bed in the darkness, eyes closed now, transporting himself to another world. He is in a tutoring session with Hermione, and his hands are strong and steady, relaxed in his lap. He makes some comment she finds offensive, and she moves to slap him, like she did back in the day, but this time he catches her wrist. She gasps, a sexy little gasp, and fixes those big dark eyes on his. She looks angry, and her hair flows wild around her face.

 _If you want to touch me that bad_ , he says, _you could've just asked._

 _I don't want to touch you_ , she tries to say, but he can tell she's lying, and she still hasn't bothered to pull her hand away. So he loosens his grip on her wrist and pulls her hand forward, brings it to his lips, and kisses her fingertips. She sighs, and her eyelids flutter. _Oh, Draco_ , she says. _How did you know..._

—

At nine o'clock the following morning, he once again drags his tired body to the conference room, where Hermione is already set up. On the table are all their ingredients, alongside two cauldrons, and the same setup of neatly stacked books and parchment notes. Hermione is standing beside one of the cauldrons and studying a piece of parchment, but she looks up when he enters the room.

"Hi, Draco," she says. He can't quite figure out how she feels about him right now. He thinks she might be nervous, too, but he may just be projecting. His hands are buried deep in his pockets, vibrating, and the moment of truth is approaching.

He inclines his head to her and moves to stand on the other side of the table. It reminds him of so many other moments in their shared past, when they stood on opposite sides of a room, separated by his fear and her suspicion. It always makes him hate himself, when he sees her narrow her eyes at him, for he knows she is right to be guarded against him. He's never given her anything but good reasons to feel that way.

She clears her throat, feeling the tension in the room. It occurs to him that she probably doesn't understand it; after all, she doesn't know why he would be so nervous. She doesn't know about the problem he's been trying to hide. "Did you have a chance to study the Felix recipe this week?" she asks, with the crisp tone of a seasoned instructor. If she is anything but entirely composed and at ease in this moment, nothing about her demeanor gives her away. He's so jealous that the envy turns into hate, black and hard in his uneasy stomach.

"Yes," he says. He scans the small piles of ingredients on the table until he spots the one they'll need. "Ashwinder egg first," he says, jutting his chin toward it. "Added to a cool, dry cauldron."

"That's correct," she says. Her voice is a tad warmer, now that she sees he's done his homework. Just like with counseling, he has to prove he's taking it seriously. She moves toward the frozen Ashwinder egg, which is sitting in a small bowl of ice, and beckons him forward with her hand. He comes over and stands beside her, looking down at the bright red egg. "For the test, they watch for proper handling. Can you show me how you'd pick it up?"

It is like a siren goes off in his brain. He tries to collect himself, measuring his breaths. Inside his pockets, he presses his hands flat against his thighs, like he does on the table before measuring the potions at the hospital. Often it helps to tense up all the muscles as much as he can, then release that tension quickly, and so this is what he tries to do.

"Draco?"

Holding his breath, he takes his hands out of his pockets, wand ready in his right. To his relief, they are steady enough. He exhales, calmer now, and aims his wand at his left palm. "The important thing," he says, "is to make sure the egg stays completely frozen until you add the horseradish and begin to heat the cauldron. So, before picking up the egg, I would cast a Cooling Charm on my hand and the cauldron."

"Very good," she says. "Go ahead."

He casts the charm on his hand, then points his wand toward the nearest of the empty cauldrons and repeats. Then, he picks up the egg with care and sets it gently inside the cauldron. "Horseradish next," he says.

She picks up a small bowl full of white powder and holds it out to him. He pinches some between his fingers and sprinkles it over the egg. Then, he reverses both of his Cooling Charms and lights an enchanted fire beneath the cauldron. As he does so, he remembers the small but crucial step he's missed, but Hermione is already in motion. She runs past him, grabs the cauldron's lid, and slams it closed just in time—a split second later, while her hand still lingers on the handle, they both jump at the _bang_ from within. It shatters the silence and, he thinks, the illusion of his competence. His hands get jittering again, and he hides them.

"Careful," she says, with a relieved sort of chuckle. "Always cover the cauldron before you expose the egg to any heat." She smiles up at him, natural and without reproach, but he can't just calm down that easily. He looks at the table and tries to count to ten, but his heart is beating too fast. He hates loud noises these days. They affect him too much, and it makes him feel weak and fragile, and he hates that even more. "Do you know what's next?" she asks, oblivious to all that's happening inside his clogged-up head.

"No," he lies, though it pains him to plead ignorance. She looks puzzled, like she knows he's lying but can't imagine why.

"Think about it," she says. "We did the Ashwinder egg and the horesradish. What's the third ingredient?" He stays silent. "It's somewhere on this table," she offers.

Draco takes a stroll around the table, taking his time to inspect each ingredient. He passes the Murtlap and keeps walking, to complete the circle, all the while tensing and relaxing the muscles in his fingers, hoping for another miracle. This time, it doesn't seem to be working.

Hermione sighs. "I thought you said you'd studied this," she says, confused. "You ought to know at least the first three ingredients."

"Maybe I forgot," he says, with a smirk that he knows she'll find quite unpleasant.

"Oh, I get it," she says. Now she is irritated. "This is some kind of game for you." She looks at her watch. "Well, I don't have time for it. Just start cutting up the Murtlap, will you?"

She looks at him, tired. Her eyes are as deeply exhausted as those of his residents, only clearer. Like him and everybody else he knows, she is twenty going on a hundred. He doesn't want to do this to her, really he doesn't, but he can't hold a knife right now. He'll cut his own fingers off, and he just can't let her see him like this. He feels so pathetic, not being able to do something so simple. He feels an angry flush rise in his cheeks, angry at everything—mostly himself, but also her and Dr Dormer and his mother, whose nagging got him into this mess. "I don't feel like it," he says hollowly. He can't quite muster the snarky voice that would normally accompany such a comment, but she gets the gist.

Her eyes flash, and she plants her hands on her hips. "What are you playing at?" she asks. Her tone is controlled, but he can tell she's more upset than he would've predicted. She's taking this personally, he realises, and he doesn't understand why. "Why show up if you don't feel like doing the work?"

It's a good question, and he has no good answer. "I don't get much say in where I go these days."

"And that's my fault now?"

"Never said it was." _This is awful_ , he thinks. It feels like they're having ten separate fights at once, all of a sudden, none of which are between the two of them.

Hermione seems to be feeling as desperate as he is to get away from this. She closes her eyes briefly, sets her jaw, and looks at him straight on. Not angry, just sick of this. "I'm trying to help you," she says.

Draco shrugs, a strange and stilted motion with his hands in such tight fists, shaking like two tiny earthquakes on either side of his body. He feels like he's going to throw up, and he swallows the saliva that is collecting in his mouth. He must be turning green, he thinks. What a pathetic creature he is. "Well, you're not the one who has to be here."

Hermione's brow furrows, and for a moment she almost looks sad. "I see," she says, and just like that, any trace of sadness disappears from view. "Well, I've got to clean all this up and get back to work. Why don't you go tell your doctor you didn't feel like trying."

Again, he shrugs. He doesn't want to open his mouth to speak again, so he just turns around and sulks out of the room, feeling like a child who's been naughty, which is more or less what he's been his whole life.

He walks down the hall to Dr Dormer's office but notices he's still twenty minutes early, and so he stands in front of her closed door to wait. Really, he tries to wait. But soon his feet are moving again, and he's walking to the Floo. He can't face her today. She's been so nice, and now he's disappointed her, and she's going to try to hypnotise him, and he's scared it'll work. So he goes home, and stares at the wall, and then lays down for a nap. He ignores the doctor's owl when it taps on his window. Hermione will probably tell her what happened anyway, and they'll get him a new counselor, and he'll start all over. Welcome to Hell.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco wakes up from his nap at 1:30 A.M., wide awake and wildly restless. He has been dreaming about time travel, about all the things he'd change. He gets out of bed and paces the floor of his room, trying to burn off some of the excess energy. He considers taking a half-dose of Sleeping Draught, as he has to be up in four hours to get ready for morning rounds, but another idea comes to him unbidden. It's crazy, but as soon as he thinks of it, he knows he has to do it. He gets dressed and takes the Floo to St Mungo's.

Like all hospital wards, most likely, the dementia ward turns out to be creepy at night. The halls are quiet, and Draco casts a Silencing Charm on his shoes to keep from causing a disturbance. There are a few guards and mediwizard's assistants stationed for the graveyard shift, but Draco knows where they are and avoids them on his way to Ms Banister's room. Luck is on his side, and no one sees him. Just as she's told him, Ms Banister is awake when he arrives, sitting up in bed and staring blankly straight ahead. Draco knocks on her door quietly. When she recognises him, she flashes him a brilliant smile through the small window and gestures for him to come in.

"Draco! You made it!" In her great excitement, she beats her arms against the blankets a few times on either side of her. "I knew you'd come and join me one of these nights."

He checks the hallway—empty—before closing the door behind him and drawing the blinds over her window. "Yeah, I'm here." He steps awkwardly up to her bedside. "How does it work?"

She studies his face, frowning. "Hang on, now. Is there something you want to talk about first?"

"No, why?"

"You seem pretty upset. My buttercup is wilting." He glares at her, and she winks.

"I'm fine," he says, but he isn't fooling either of them. "I just want to see this time travel magic you've been bragging about all this time."

She looks at him for another moment, tilting her head, and then shrugs. "If you insist. Come here." With some difficulty, she pushes herself over to one side of the bed, then pats the empty space beside her. On a twin-size mattress, it would be a tight squeeze, and Draco has certainly never envisioned himself crawling into bed with one of his patients. He'd almost certainly get fired if he got caught doing that, no matter how many times he tried to explain his bizarre excuse.

"How about I just sit over here?" he asks, gesturing to his usual chair.

Ms Banister shakes her head vigorously. "No, no, no. It has to be the bed—I've tried the chair, and it only works in this bed. But you needn't worry, I won't try anything. Maybe a hundred and twenty years ago, like I said, but you're not my type anymore—no offense meant."

"None taken," he says. And he knows it's a terribly weird thing to do, but he's already here in the middle of the night, and he just has to know for sure if this old lady—his best friend, Ms Wisteria Banister—is an insane person. He'll still be friends with her if she is, mind. He knows he's in no position to judge, mental-health-wise. All the same, he needs to know. And so Draco gets up onto the bed and sits beside her, on top of the covers. He leans back against her pillows. She holds out her small hand, like a spirit guide, and he folds it in his. Her white skin is like cold paper, stretched over tiny bird-bones, and he takes care to apply no pressure. He is afraid he'll break her fingers, especially if the tremors begin, but for now his hand is steady.

"Now, close your eyes," she says. "And try to relax. Imagine yourself falling and falling down a long dark tunnel, but that you'll always be safe there. The tunnel just leads deeper inside yourself. And as you fall, the darkness gets deeper and warmer, and you feel safer and safer."

He does feel safe. The darkness beneath his eyelids seems to swallow all light, and he feels Ms Banister's paper skin warm up to match his body temperature. It feels like his body is sinking through her mattress and down into a protected space below the floor, where he can just sit side by side, in total comfort, with the only friend who'll never judge him or make him do something he doesn't want to do.

"Now, you get to the bottom of the tunnel, and you see a door in front of you. Do you see it?"

In his mind, Draco imagines that he sees the door. "Yes," he says.

"Describe it to me, dear. What sort of door is it?"

"It's a set of French doors," he says. The image that springs to mind first is from his family's summer home in Tuscany. "Trimmed in white, with gold handles. Through the glass, you can see blue sky."

"Wonderful," she says. "That's very beautiful, Draco." She squeezes his hand, and he feels a smile spread across his face. "Now imagine that I'm there beside you, and that we're going to take the handle and turn it, and we're going to go through the door together. And on the other side, we'll be somewhere else in Time."

"All right," he says. "I can see it. I can see us both there. We're taking the knob, and we're turning it."

And he really does see that part, in his mind, but there's nothing on the other side. Just more blue skies that fade to black. He pauses, waiting to see if magic will happen, but he knows that it will not. He has always known that nothing would happen. Really, he didn't come here because he thought something would happen. Draco opens his eyes and blinks as they adjust to the light, and he gently lets go of Ms Banister's hand.

At his side, she lets out a contented sigh and pats his arm. "Did you see it?" she asks.

He thinks of lying, briefly, but decides to be honest. "No," he says. "I'm sorry, Ms Banister. I didn't see anything past the door."

She frowns sympathetically, but she doesn't seem to be disappointed in him. "Ah, that's too bad. I was afraid that might happen."

"What do you mean?"

She smooths the blankets over her lap. "I left you behind. I guess I'm the only one who can do it, after all. I had a feeling that perhaps, out of anyone, you could. Oh, well."

He turns his head toward her. "Why me?" he demands, feeling that same old pit begin to open in his stomach. "Don't you know I can't do anything? I can't even slice up a bloody Murtlap anymore." Hot tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes. At first he tries to hold them back, but then he reckons there's no reason to. Ms Banister has seen little boys cry before, he's certain. She's probably seen just about all there is to see.

"Oh, now," she says. With a small hiss of pain, she manages to wrap her frail arm around his shoulders, and he rests his head against the side of her neck. "You can do all sorts of things. There's no shame in not being able to travel through time—after all, I'm the only one who can. And I'd wager, if given the choice, the Murtlaps of the world would remain unsliced." He is crying in earnest now, but he laughs a little bit, too.

"No, I had to make a potion," he says, through ugly little gasps and a haze of tears. He is blubbering. "I was making a potion with this girl...this girl I've fancied since I was a kid."

"So, there is a girl," Ms Banister says, patting his back rhythmically. "I figured there had to be one somewhere."

"But she hates me," he says. "She always has."

"Why's that, love?"

"Because I deserve it. I'm always insulting her."

"If she's a smart girl—and I'm sure she is, if you like her—she'll know what that means. When I was her age, I knew."

"I acted like a spoilt brat today, all because I didn't want her to see my hands." Snot is running down Draco's face in grotesque little rivers, landing on Ms Banister's nightgown and blanket, but she doesn't seem to mind. She just holds him to her side, an old pro at this whole mothering thing.

"Your hands?" she asks. She turns her head and looks down at Draco's hands, which are shaking now and making white waves on the sheets. "What's the matter with your hands?"

"They don't work anymore. They shake like this all the time. I can't even hold my wand. I can't do anything."

"Listen up, buttercup," she says, stern but sweet. "Your hands do this thing you don't like, and I'm in a dementia ward. Right?"

She lifts his chin with two fingers, forcing him to look her in the eyes. He has more or less stopped crying by now. "I guess so," he says.

"Yes, you do guess so. It's the truth. That's how things are for the two of us. It's not what we wanted, no, and certainly we never asked for it. But we can't hide it, either. Why, my ex-husband tells everyone he meets that I'm a batty old coot, locked up in here." Draco begins to cry again, thinking of someone being so cruel to his friend. That wicked man is running around doing just the sort of thing Draco himself used to do—the kind of thing Draco keeps doing to this day. "But even though I can travel through time, I have never gone back and changed a thing. I only do it to see the sights, you see, because there is always more to see. The world is bigger than you and me, Draco."

"I know," he says. He reminds himself that there are whole other countries out there, all full of people who don't care about him at all. In the grand scheme of things, he and his hands are so very small.

"Which isn't to say we aren't important—I'm not saying that at all. What I mean is only that there's a lot of diversity. There's people in dementia wards, people with shaky hands, people with big noses, and people with simply dreadful taste in literature—my former husband among them. Do you see what I'm saying?"

"Yes," he says, with a small smile.

"And with all those differences, there are only two kinds of people that we should pity: the ones who wouldn't know a good book if it smacked them in the face, and the ones who try to pretend they're anything other than exactly what they are. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Sure," he says. He sniffles and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. "And I do pity your ex-husband. He sounds awful, and he lost you."

Ms Banister squeezes his shoulder. "You've got a good heart, Draco. Why don't you go show that girl, and see if she still hates you?"

—

Draco spends the rest of the night dozing in Ms Banister's chair, then sneaks back out of her room when it's time for morning rounds—no one is the wiser. Even though he barely sleeps at all, his hands are steadier than usual all day, and he feels pretty energetic by the end of his shift. This is good, because he has made Ms Banister a promise: he will go find Hermione and explain to her why he was so rude in their tutoring session. As soon as he changes out of his scrubs and into his street clothes, the tremors begin again at the prospect of what he must do. _Oh, well_ , he thinks. _At least she won't think I'm lying._

Since Draco's days start so early, he usually gets out a few hours before Hermione would. So, he takes the Floo directly from St Mungo's to the Ministry, hoping she'll still be in her office. Hands in his pockets, he heads over to the Department of Magical Education. He asks the receptionist if he can have a brief word with Hermione Granger, and the woman goes to check. Draco waits in the lobby, looking at the magazines on the table. There's a new _Witch Weekly_ , and he thinks about taking it for Ms Banister, but then the receptionist returns. He isn't sure whether he's relieved or disappointed when she tells him that Hermione has agreed to see him.

She leads him down the hall to Hermione's office, then motions him through the correct door with an uncomfortable smile. He realises that she must know who he is, and that she must be curious why he's attempting to visit Hermione Granger. He hasn't said anything about why he's here, but he's certain that a juicy and improbable rumour will be circulating through multiple departments by day's end.

Hermione doesn't stand up from her desk when he enters. She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest, regarding him defiantly. "Hello, Draco," she says. Her voice is professional and cold.

He walks in front of her desk and feels terribly exposed, just as he does in Dr Dormer's office, like a sad little clown on a big bright stage. Maybe that's for the best: if he imagines that he is only putting on a show, playing a role, then he can do what he needs to do. "Hi, Granger," he says. There is a long, awkward pause, and he doesn't know where to start.

Despite her posturing, Hermione can't help but show her discomfort. "Is there something you came here to say?" she asks.

"Yes," he says. He clears his throat and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. So, at length, he takes his hands out of his pockets and holds them up in front of him. For a moment, he watches in silence as the tremors rack him from the wrists down. Then, he looks up at Hermione, and it is like her armour has been split open. Her expression is vulnerable, full of pain and surprise, and her mouth hangs slightly open. "I wanted you to know why I couldn't slice the Murtlap," he says. His own voice is vulnerable, too, as he looks into her sweet brown eyes. There is a long moment where they just look at each other, look into each other, and it is like a bridge forms between them.

"I'm sorry," she says. Not like an apology, but like expressing condolences. _I'm sorry for your loss._ Then she opens the top drawer of her desk and begins to rummage through it. She reaches in and takes out two small potion bottles, then sets them down in front of him. He jams his hands back into his pockets and bends to read the labels. He recognises the medications—common antidepressants—since several of his residents take them daily. Both of the doctors so far have tried to give them to Draco also, but he isn't interested.

"I'm sorry, too," he says. He straightens up, keeping his hands tucked away, even though the tremors have more or less steadied out following his admission. "Don't these potions make you feel... I don't know, dead inside?"

She laughs darkly. "No, that's how I felt already. These help, I think. Stops most of the crying."

He is amazed at her frankness. Just because his malady is so visible doesn't mean she has to reveal hers as well. He is grateful for her generosity. "They want me to take them, too. Dr Dormer says it might help with my hands."

"It might," she says. "But it's up to you if you want to do it. I know other people who don't feel comfortable taking the meds, and that's their choice to make."

He looks up suddenly. "What do you mean?"

She raises her eyebrows, as though she didn't expect him to be so surprised. "Draco," she says, "you know everybody's got this, right? In one form or another?"

"Got what?" He is leaning forward, searching her wide eyes, desperate to hear that she means what he thinks she means.

"The nightmares," she says. "The panic and the crying jags and all of it. Even the tremors—I remember George Weasley had major problems with those, right after the War. He took the potions, though, and it went away—I suppose I shouldn't be telling you this." She looks away, cringing. He can tell she feels badly for saying too much, but he is so glad that she did.

"I won't spread it around," he says. It feels like that yawning pit inside him has been sewn shut. It feels like he can breathe. He's overcome by a wave of exhaustion, and he realises that he hasn't slept in days, but that he finally feels like he could. Like he could lay down right now and stretch out like a cat in the sun, dreamlessly, and wake up feeling like he's actually gotten some rest. He looks up at Hermione, feeling stupid and sluggish, almost drunk. It gives him something akin to courage. "Can I have another chance?" he asks.

"Yes, I think that would be possible." She gathers her potion bottles and returns them to her drawer. "We can return to our previous arrangement this Wednesday."

"Thanks," he says. The two of them nod to one another, and he feels strangely comfortable in her presence, now that this mutual understanding has been built between them. He leaves her office feeling both powerful and calm.

Next, Draco has one more bit of damage control. He needs to talk to Dr Dormer: she's been good to him, and he doesn't want them to assign him to another new counselor. Last week, when he was ignoring her owl, the situation had seemed hopeless, but it's strange how easily one's perspective can shift. Now, he is thinking back to all the times she's shown him kindness, and he has little doubt that she will forgive him for missing an appointment. This is a new thing for Draco, trusting people to be nice, but for the moment it comes easily.

He takes the lift to her office, and he doesn't need to wait long before she's able to speak with him. As soon as she sees him, her face lights up, and he knows that he was right about her.

"Draco," she says. "You're back!"

"I'm back," he agrees. He tries to meet her eyes, but it is too hard. Maybe next time. "I'm sorry about last week."

"That's fine," she says. "It's just that I was worried about you. We can make up that session, but the next time you can't make it, can you try to send me an owl and let me know what's going on?"

"Okay," he says.

"Great. So, I'll see you at your regular time this Wednesday?"

"Yes," he says, "I'll be there."

—

Later that week, Draco brings Ms Banister a lime jelly cup. It is the color of glow worms and probably doesn't taste much better. When she sees it, she frowns. "Out of blue raspberry, then?"

"Sorry," he says. "Just lime or cherry today." He holds up the two jellies, and she points to the green one.

"Ah, well," she says. "When life hands you lime gelatin..." She trails off and then laughs, but Draco doesn't get the joke. He figures it's an old-person thing.

"I talked to that girl," he says. He's surprised how fragile his own voice sounds, saying this.

"Oh?" Ms Banister leans forward, looking excited. "What did she say?"

"She said it's all right. She'll give me another chance." His hands are shaking as he thinks about it, making the red jelly wobble on his spoon.

"That's wonderful news!" Her eyes are sparkling with joy for him, and he can't help but smile in return. "Well, now you have to tell me all about her." Draco tries to laugh it off, but she hushes him—she's quite serious, it turns out. "What's her name?"

"Hermione," he says, too quietly for this ward.

"O'Reilly?" Ms Banister shouts, brows furrowed.

 _"Hermione."_

"Hermione?" She's still shouting.

"Yes," he says, snappish now, as he checks to make sure the door is fully closed. He's afraid someone will hear who they're talking about.

"Hermione," she says again, this time in her indoor voice. "I like that. An unusual name for an unusual girl. Hermione what?"

This time, Draco leans closer and makes sure to enunciate. "Granger."

"Granger?" she repeats, and he nods. He can tell by her tone that she's confused for a different reason this time. "I don't know that name."

In Ms Banister's generational parlance, that is the polite way of asking if someone is Muggle-born. "Right," he says, looking away. "You wouldn't know it." He's spent years trying not to think about this particular aspect of this particular girl, but it's always there when he thinks about her, lurking in the background. It's the reason he never told anyone how he felt about her, and the reason he made sure she'd never like him. He used to hate himself for wanting her. Now he hates himself for thinking that way, and he doesn't really know what he wants.

"Well, I'll be darned," Ms Banister says approvingly. "A Malfoy fancies a Muggle girl. Even in all my travels, I never thought I'd see the day. What do your parents have to say about it?"

"I haven't told them." He tries not to think about this most of all.

Ms Banister reaches over and taps his knee with two fingers, which she likes to do when she's about to say something important. "Don't let them put you off it," she says. "If my parents had listened to talk like that, I wouldn't be here. And things were much worse back then for mixed couples."

"Your mum was Muggle?" He can't keep the surprise out of his voice. Banister is an old bloodline, although a few generations of daughters have made it a rare name to hear.

"My dad was, actually, but they gave me and my sister her surname. It helped, but of course everybody knew anyway. Made things tough at school, sometimes."

It is possible, likely even, that one of Draco's very own ancestors—on the Malfoy or the Black side, take your pick—were the ones making it hard on her, just like he had done himself to Hermione. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says.

"Is that why you never courted her at Hogwarts?" Ms Banister asks, looking sad now. She doesn't wait for an answer, because she already knows she's right. "My, that is a shame. Imagine all the young love those blood purity gits have managed to tamp down over the years," she says, shaking her head. "Thank goodness you've still got time."

He thinks of his godfather then, surely the most tragic victim of that circumstance, and remembers what a sad shell of a man it turned him into. "Yeah," he says. "I suppose I do."

—

On Wednesday, Draco enters the conference room to find the same scene as last Wednesday, with everything laid out and ready. But this time, all of the ingredients are pre-sliced in small bowls. _That's nice of her_ , he thinks. He doesn't really know what to do with thoughts like that. He doesn't know what to do when he looks at her, either. She is even prettier than she was back then. His hands are sweating and shaking, but he keeps them out, by his sides. Maybe there is strength in not hiding.

"Hi, Draco," she says. The warmth in her voice takes him by surprise.

"Hi, Granger," he says, though his own voice sounds dry and rather small.

"I hope you don't mind, but I did some research into the N.E.W.T. test-taking policies." She seems nervous to tell him this, but he isn't sure what she's getting at. "I mean, I didn't tell them I was asking for you or anything."

"Okay?" he says.

"It turns out that if you aren't physically able to do certain tasks during the test, they will set up appropriate accommodations. So, someone would slice your ingredients, and so forth."

"Oh," he says. It was thoughtful of her to go to the trouble of finding that out, and he doesn't understand why she's done it. Last week, she was acting like she didn't have any free time, but now she's spending it owling people up to ask questions on his behalf. "That's good. Thanks."

She shrugs. "No problem. I reckoned there wasn't much use in completing the lesson if we couldn't replicate the conditions of the test."

"That makes sense," he says, but it still seems like she's gone out of her way. Cautiously, so as not to get his hopes up, he begins to wonder if he might someday have a chance with her.

"Right," she says. It's a bit awkward, though, now that they know all these personal things about one another. Neither of them knows what to say. There is too much silence in all the wrong places. "Anyway, I think you know how to make this potion."

"Yes," he says. "I do."

He guides her through all the steps, beginning with the frozen Ashwinder egg, and this time he remembers to cover the cauldron in time. He ought to: he's gone over this potion so many times it's been showing up in his dreams. As they move through the recipe, his hands begin to steady out, and he is able to do things on his own. By the time they reach the final incantation, he has taken over all the stirring, and he's feeling pretty good.

Hermione inspects his potion before the last step, but she doesn't need to look for long. She's seen him do everything right.

"This looks great," she says. "Next it would need to brew for six months, of course, stirring daily, but you'll only need to complete it to this point and demonstrate the incantation for the test."

"That's no fun," he says. It's almost like the potion's vapours are prematurely taking effect—he feels good enough to try making a joke. "Can't you picture it? All the students and the test proctor having to move in together for six months and stare at their cauldrons. I'd pay to see it."

She laughs, eyes dancing, and he feels even better. "It's funny you should say so, because Muggles have a thing like that." She studies his expression as she says this, no doubt searching for some trace of disgust or dismissal. Really, though, he is intrigued. He doesn't know much about Muggles.

"Like what, a six-month-long test?"

"No, just the moving in together bit." She pauses and frowns, like she's not quite sure how to explain it. "They pay people to go and share a house with strangers, and anyone who wants to can watch what happens from special screens in their homes."

"Wait," he says. No part of this seems logical, but he doesn't want to badmouth Muggles in front of her. "Why?"

She smiles at his incredulous tone. "It's funny to watch, I guess. The people fight a lot."

"I'm sure they do," he says, once he thinks about it. "I imagine the ones who're willing to do it aren't the calm and quiet sort." She laughs again—he's on a roll.

"Exactly, that's how it works. An offer like that attracts some strange volunteers."

"That's pretty wild, Granger. You'll have to show it to me sometime."

She shakes her head. "No, there's much better Muggle stuff than that. It's kind of a lowest-common-denominator sort of entertainment, like the gossip section of the _Prophet_ or something."

Now he's curious what else they've got, and he's about to ask her more about it—truthfully, he's never put much thought into how Muggles entertain themselves without magic—but then a knock at the door makes them both jump. Dr Dormer opens it part-way and pokes her head in.

"Oh!" Hermione looks at her watch in disbelief. "I'm sorry, Leona. We were just finishing up."

"No problem," Dr Dormer says. She looks between them and smiles like she's keeping a secret. "I just wondered if you two were still here."

By the time he turns back around, Hermione has already started whirling around the room and packing stuff away. He sees that she is blushing, and now he thinks for sure: he's got a chance. "You go on ahead," she says, without looking up. "I'll finish cleaning up here. See you next week!"

—

Draco follows Dr Dormer to her office, where they sit in their usual places. Without even thinking about it, he has allowed his hands to lay open in his lap, and they're only shaking a little bit. The motion is visible, but he could hold a wand if he needed to. He sits up straight in the chair, in the sunny room, and meets those frighteningly wide eyes. As he does, he feels overcome, but not the way he did when he started panicking at their last appointment. It's almost a good feeling, or at least a welcome one. It's something he's been wanting to feel for a while: alive.

"I don't want to be hypnotised," he blurts out, before she can even start their usual set of questions.

"All right," she says, taken aback. "We don't have to try that."

"Sorry," he says. He doesn't mean to make her feel bad; certainly, it isn't her fault.

"Not at all." Her presence is calm as ever, and he feels some of the tension in his shoulders abate. "We won't do anything you're not comfortable with."

"Thanks," he says. He is relieved, but also energised. "I just mean—I feel like I've been hypnotised this whole time. I think I want to wake up."

Dr Dormer smiles then, and Draco smiles back for once. It isn't so hard after all. "I think that's wonderful," she says. "Let's work on that."

—  
FIN


End file.
